


With What We Have, I Promise You That

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: South Park
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Post-S15E07, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after "You're Getting Old," Stan returns to South Park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With What We Have, I Promise You That

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from lyrics to OneRepublic's "Marching On."

The clock on the microwave reads 9:01. Kyle pulls his phone from his pocket to make sure the microwave is accurate: it is. It really is 9:01, which means Kyle has been alone in the apartment for over four hours, since it was a little before five when Kenny left. It's 9:01, which means Stan is one minute late, which may or may not mean that he's not coming, after all.

Kyle checks his messages again, on the off-chance that he didn't feel his phone vibrate. The last one is still from Kenny, an hour ago: _DON'T PANIC_. Kyle goes to delete it, just like he did when he first read it, because it never helps when people tell him to calm down or cheer up—but when the phone asks him to confirm, he backs out again. It's not that Kenny's text is soothing, but Kyle knows he's referencing _Hitchhiker's Guide_ , which he hopes means Kenny has read it instead of renting the mostly terrible movie. Kyle tells himself he's keeping the message as a reminder to ask Kenny about that, and not because he's taking comfort in the words themselves.

Unable to sit still, he wanders around the apartment he and Kenny have been renting since last year. One year in the dorms at Boulder had been enough for him. He doesn't mind the commute, especially since he's usually able to fit his classes into a three-day schedule. Besides, this way he gets to be here for Ike, and of course Kenny, and. Okay. Yes. He won't admit it to Kenny, who just grins whenever it comes up like Kyle has admitted it anyhow, but yes: Kyle has wanted to be here in South Park for when Stan comes back. He never gave up hoping, even after Stan fell out of touch with everyone and years went by in silence.

Then last year Stan started sending postcards, addressed to their childhood homes. At first the postcards just said, "Hey dude," signed with Stan's first name only. Kenny and Cartman figured someone was playing a cruel joke; Kenny thought it was Cartman, while Cartman accused Craig. When it turned out Craig had also received a postcard, Cartman took that as proof that Craig was behind it—while Kenny, of course, said it was only evidence against Cartman. Kyle thought it was Stan, though, and so did Wendy. The messages got a little longer, only by a few words—but oh, those words... Kyle still reads the one that says, "I'm okay. Hope you are too," at least once a week.

Eventually they all stopped talking about the postcards, even Wendy and him. But the postcards kept coming, once a month.

And then yesterday, when Kyle got back from Boulder, Kenny met him at the door so promptly, Kyle knew he had to have been waiting.

"I want you to—"

"Oh Jesus Christ, what is it? What's wrong?"

"—promise not to freak out," Kenny finished. "Too late," he added, sotto voce.

"What's happened? Is it my brother?" Ike has hit his teenaged years with a vengeance; Kyle recently became his emergency contact in hopes of sparing their mother a cardiac arrest or possible jail time for the murder she keeps threatening of her youngest son.

"Um, sort of," Kenny said. "Just not the one whose last name you share."

The adrenaline that had spiked when he thought Ike was in trouble channeled into a frustration bordering on anger that Kenny was getting him worked up for nothing.

And then he got it. "Oh my god." He took a step back, glad for the solidity of the door when he bumped up against it and let it take his weight. "Is he." Kyle broke off, not sure whether to finish the sentence with "dead" or "here."

"Dude, it's okay, I promise. Here, just sit down."

"Okay," Kyle said, sliding down. Half-way down, he realized Kenny had been reaching for him, probably to take him over to the sofa. "Sorry," he said, still leaning against the door as his ass hit the floor.

"It's okay. Just stay there." Kenny crossed to their landline, hit a couple of buttons on the answering machine, and pumped the volume way up.

"Hey." A deep and unexpectedly sweet voice came out of the machine. Kyle's vision blurred and he closed his eyes, brushing impatiently at the tears. "So, uh. This is Stan. Marsh?" Eyes still closed, Kyle laughed at the way Stan's voice went up. Like there ever was another Stan. Like there ever could be.

"I don't know if you guys have gotten the postcards I've been sending, but anyhow, I hope it's okay that I'm calling. I got your number from Ike." Kyle suppressed a jealous surge that Ike had spoken to Stan before he did, but pushed it away as Stan kept talking on the answering machine. "So, um, I know this is short notice and I totally understand if you can't do it or you don't want to or whatever, but I'm in Colorado right now." Kyle's eyes snapped open. "And I was kind of thinking maybe I could come by and see you guys? I mean, only if you want. Like I said, I get it if you don't want to see me. So, just let me know." And then there was a number where he could be reached.

Kyle put his head in his hands, didn't look up even when Kenny said his name. He felt Kenny sit down next to him. "Are you freaking out?" Kenny shifted, brushing his shoulder against Kyle's. Sometimes Kyle pulls away when Kenny does that, but this time he pushed into it, leaning more on Kenny than on the door.

"No." Kyle let his hands drop. "I'm okay."

Kenny was looking at him closely and Kyle knew better than to try smiling under this scrutiny; there was nothing Kenny mistrusted like a fake smile. He held himself steady in Kenny's gaze, and after a moment Kenny nodded. "I haven't called him yet. I figured you'd want to do it."

Kyle started to thank him, but his throat swelled up at the thought of talking to Stan, actually talking to him and hearing him in real time, after all these years. He swallowed a couple of times but it didn't help, so he kept his voice low in the hopes Kenny wouldn't hear the lump. "You do it, okay?"

"Sure, dude." Kenny went back over to the phone, consulting the piece of paper on which he must have scribbled Stan's number. Kyle meant to listen but found himself zoning out instead, trying to decide whether to sort through his feelings or suppress them or just let them all wash over him; and wondering what he'd do tomorrow when he— _god_ , when he saw Stan.

The conversation was short, so short Kyle figured Kenny had left a message, but when Kenny came back over after a stop at the fridge for a couple of beers, he said, "Okay, he's coming over tomorrow at 9."

"In the morning?" Kyle asked, holding his beer so the mouth of the bottle hovered beneath his own, not touching it.

Kenny shook his head. "Evening. He thought that might be too late, but I said it was cool." He took a swig, then looked at Kyle. "It _is_ cool, isn't it?"

"Yes," Kyle said, not giving himself time to think. Then he did give himself time to think, and knew for sure he meant it when he said, "Yes," again.

Kenny plied him with a few more beers, meting them out judiciously in an undisguised attempt to give Kyle a drowsy edge, which Kyle always gets when drinking slowly. It worked last night, too, insofar as Kyle slept between the hours of 2 and 6, at which time he got up and started cleaning the apartment.

He spent most of the day cleaning and then making the place deliberately messy so it wouldn't seem compulsively neat. He's not actually a neat freak; it's just a stress response he seems to have inherited from his mother. He didn't think he was that bad this time, until Kenny got up abruptly at ten to five and announced he was going out.

"But you'll be back before nine, right?" Kyle asked, just to make sure.

"No, dude."

"What?"

Zipping up his jacket, Kenny turned toward him. "You can do this, Kyle. I kind of think you have to."

"Kenny..."

Kenny came over then and put his hands on Kyle's shoulders. "You got this, dude. You do."

"Don't you want to see him, though?" The lump was back; Kyle didn't even try to swallow it.

Shrugging, Kenny grinned. "I'll see him."

Kyle wanted to argue that Kenny didn't know that, but found himself only sighing. "Okay. Go."

"Gone," Kenny said, walking toward the door.

As he was opening it, Kyle said, "Hey, aren't you going to ask if I'm sure?"

"Nope," Kenny said. "'Cause I'm sure enough for both of us, dude." With a backward wave but without a backward glance, he let the door shut behind him.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, Kyle started to clean again, but even he was sick of it at that point. So he took a shower, forced himself to give the bathroom only a cursory wipe down, and made himself watch the news even though local, national, and world events didn't seem very important at the moment. Finally they seemed so unimportant that he turned off the TV.

He thinks about turning it on again now, just for company. It's 9:05. He can't remember what's on at 9:05 p.m. on Saturdays. Maybe he'll watch the TV Guide Channel for a while; Kenny has been known to watch it for hours, even when he's not stoned. Which Kyle has always thought was weird, but maybe this is a chance for him to try to understand his roommate better. Walk a mile in his shoes, sit a mile in his beanbag chair.

Or maybe he'll just sit here on the sofa, TV off.

Or maybe he'll go out.

Okay. Yes. He'll do that. He'll leave a note on the door with his cell number—no, he'll leave Kenny's cell number. That way he can go for a walk at Stark's Pond without obsessively checking his phone every twenty seconds for a call that will never come.

Good. Great. He has a plan now.

He's just finished double-wrapping his scarf and is bending to lace his boots, when there's a knock on the door. Kyle jerks up. It could be Kenny; maybe he changed his mind, maybe he forgot his keys. It could be a neighbor, wanting to borrow a cup of sugar. It could be a couple of Mormons, wanting to tell him about the book that will change his life.

Except he knows it's not Kenny or a neighbor or Mormons.

When the second knock comes, Kyle realizes that with all the time he's had, all the time where he hasn't known what to do with himself, he hasn't thought at all about what he's going to say.

Goddamnit.

Too late now: he goes over and, before there's a third knock, opens the door.

They stand looking at each other across the threshold. Stan must not have thought about what he was going to say, either, because neither of them speaks.

Then Stan kind of smiles, like whatever he's feeling is too heavy for the curvature of his mouth, and says, "Kyle."

Kyle opens his mouth and somehow the words that come out are, "Fuck you."

"Oh." Stan glances off and nods to himself. There's still a little tiny bit of his smile there, clinging to the corners of his mouth. "Okay, well." He looks at Kyle as he takes a step back, reaching across himself to scratch at his arm. "I'm sorry I—"

"No." Kyle steps forward, starts to reach out, curls his hand in on itself. "Not fuck you; fuck me. Or, I don't know, just—" He breaks off, looking at his loose fist. One feeling distinguishes itself from the mess of emotions writhing inside him: he's felt this before, this desire to put his arms around Stan and make everything all right for him, but he didn't do it then because he didn't think he _could_ make it all right. And he still doesn't know if he can, but—

"Stan. Dude~"

Ten fucking years apart, and Stan still knows what Kyle wants when Kyle says his name like that. He stops scratching at his arm, opens himself up, and he can't smile even a little bit now but that's okay because Kyle knows Stan is okay with this, knows he wants this; Kyle knows, because—because he _knows_.

He wraps himself around Stan, only letting out his breath when he feels Stan's arms fold around him.

When Kyle inhales almost as deeply as he'd exhaled, a shiver trickles down his spine, under his skin. He thought it would come back to him, Stan's unique smell, but this isn't triggering any childhood memories. The tang of the ocean clings to Stan, or at least to his jacket, and Kyle believes all those California postmarks now in a way he didn't before. He doesn't know where he thought Stan really was; there was only here and not-here.

Stan's hand is moving up and down along Kyle's spine, and Kyle realizes Stan felt him shiver. He shivers again, differently, bunching up the back of Stan's jacket in his fists.

"Hey," Stan says after another minute, "do you think we could go inside?"

"Oh—yeah, of course, dude." Kyle looks down at their boots. He nudges one of Stan's; it feels reinforced, steel toe, maybe. Carefully, he puts one of his feet on top of Stan's. If Stan laughs, Kyle will, too. But Stan tightens his hold on Kyle, holding him at just the right height as Kyle settles his other foot on top of Stan's.

Stan walks them through the doorway and Kyle lets go with one hand long enough to push the door shut, before his fingers latch into Stan's jacket again. He steps down from the boots but keeps his arms around Stan. "Can I get you a drink?" he says, remembering to be a good Broflovski host.

"Would you have to let go of me to get it?" Stan asks.

Kyle smiles up at him. "Yeah, probably."

"Then I'm good," Stan says, smiling back.

They stand there looking at each other, looking into each other, not speaking, not smiling anymore. Kyle could stand here for years, just like this. He can hear himself breathing and thinks he can hear Stan's breath beneath his own; he wants to hold his breath so he can listen to Stan—but Stan might be trying to listen to Kyle, too, so Kyle keeps breathing.

Then Stan takes a deeper breath and says, "I'm sorry, Kyle, I'm so sorry."

"Don't." Kyle shakes his head, arms tightening briefly around Stan, another one of the hugs he didn't give Stan back then. "You don't have to apologize for leaving." He isn't sure if Stan knows how much Kyle knows, but Kyle thinks he's probably the one who should apologize.

He starts to; they both start talking, and then they both stop. "Me first, okay?" Stan says. Kyle nods, but instead of talking, Stan sighs and looks off. He doesn't let go of Kyle, though, so Kyle waits.

Finally Stan says, "I'll tell you later about why things happened the way they did back then, if you want to hear"—which probably means he doesn't know that Kyle knows; but more importantly, how could Stan think Kyle might not want to hear every single word Stan feels like saying? Kyle holds his tongue, though, and lets Stan continue uninterrupted: "But what I meant was, I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was or how to get in touch with me when I started sending the postcards."

"Yeah." Kyle still doesn't let go, but he does pull back to try to see Stan's face better. "Why didn't you?"

Stan shrugs, his weighted-down smile returning. "At first I was afraid you guys might hate me...and then I was afraid you might not. And." He shrugs again, looks away. "I guess I didn't know which would be worse."

"Stan..." Kyle waits for Stan to look at him, but Stan's eyes only slide back, then glance away again. "Do you want me to hate you?"

Stan shakes his head.

"Good," Kyle says firmly. "Because I never did. I never could. Okay?"

Stan looks at him, and his mouth curves into a wide grin.

"What?"

"Nothing," Stan says, still smiling. "Everything. You. You still get that little crinkle right here," Stan touches Kyle's brow, tracing lightly from above one eye to the other, "when you're super serious and determined."

Kyle feels the heat of a blush coming on and tries not to think about it, since awareness always makes things worse.

Stan foils his plans, though: "And you still don't blush as deep red as your hair—until I point it out."

And there it is, the all-consuming flame under his skin. "You're still a dickwad when you want to be," Kyle says.

"You still like it, though, right?"

Kyle snorts, neither confirming nor denying it. Stan's grinning like he knows, anyhow, and he probably does; and suddenly Kyle feels more solid than he has in a decade.

Now that he's not in danger of floating away or disintegrating, Kyle is able to let go of Stan. One hand lingers as he steps back, but Stan looks like he feels solid, too, still smiling a full smile, so Kyle lets him stand on his own. "How about that drink now?"

"Just water for me."

Kyle has this covered. He goes to the refrigerator and opens it, then hesitates with his hand on the six pack of Coors Non-Alcoholic. It's possible that Stan won't question it, but it's also possible that it will make him self-conscious about things he hasn't told Kyle yet. Kyle doesn't want that to happen, so he straightens enough to look over the fridge door. "We have orange juice, if you want? Or I could make you some tea?"

"Actually, orange juice sounds really good," Stan says, shrugging out of his jacket. He sits at the folding card-table that, much to the chagrin of Kyle's mother, is passing as a kitchen table at the moment, and starts to unlace his boots.

Kyle takes a matching pair of glasses out of the cabinet. He suspects they came from Wal-Mart but his mother, probably knowing his feelings on corporate giants in general and that one in particular, denied it when she packed them into one of the boxes of things she gave Kyle when he moved in here. He pours the juice and sticks the carton back in the fridge, then turns to join Stan at the table.

Stan is padding over to him in sock feet, though, so Kyle stays where he is. He's still wearing his hat, which Kyle knows logically can't be the same one, but it looks really, really close. He wonders if Stan looked for it especially for his visit to South Park; Kyle isn't going to ask, he's just going to believe it. He smiles when Stan gets to him, hands Stan one of the juice glasses, and reaches up to touch the red puff ball.

"Oh," Stan says, putting his hand up, too. Their fingers touch up on the puff ball, then fall away. Stan touches Kyle's hair so lightly, Kyle almost doesn't feel it. "You don't wear hats anymore?"

"I have a hood," Kyle says. He wonders which of them is going to say, "Like Kenny"—and then he realizes Stan hasn't asked about Kenny yet. He probably wouldn't, Kyle thinks, considering his confession that he thought Kenny and Kyle hated him. "Kenny wanted to be here, by the way," he says, wondering if it's enough to leave it at that.

Apparently it is, because Stan nods as he takes off his hat, setting it on the counter. "Yeah, he texted me. Promised to meet up with me tomorrow."

Which explains Kenny's confidence when he left, at least the part about seeing Stan. Kyle flushes at the thought that Kenny sat right here in their apartment texting Stan and not telling him.

"Hey, maybe you should take this off," Stan says, picking up one end of Kyle's scarf. "You look kind of hot. I mean—" he catches himself, half-grins, his mouth fighting the full smile. "You know what I mean."

Kyle grins. "You don't think I'm hot, dude?" he asks as Stan sets down his glass and starts to unwind the scarf for Kyle. Stan's hesitation is so brief, it almost might not have happened, but Kyle knows it did. Stan gives Kyle another half-grin—this one struggling even to exist, Kyle thinks—before he turns his attention to the scarf as he finishes undoing it. _Fuck_ , Kyle thinks. He hopes he hasn't messed up everything.

Stan puts the scarf on the counter, looks down a moment, then back at Kyle. He opens his mouth, closes it again as he swallows; his chest rises and falls, he parts his lips again to moisten them, and Kyle tries not to fidget as he waits for what Stan is obviously gathering himself to say, a last goodbye or a poetic confession or—

"Kyle."

Or Kyle's name. Which, the way Stan has said it, is definitely not goodbye, might or might not be a confession, and kind of takes Kyle's breath away.

As their gazes meet again, Kyle finds himself reaching for Stan, his fingers fumbling along Stan's waistband, finally curling into his belt loops, not tugging Stan forward or anything, just holding on.

"Do you want to go to my room?" Kyle asks. It doesn't even feel like a risk; he knows Stan will understand what he's offering.

Stan's lashes flutter with the depth of his sigh, his mouth opening into a small, soft smile. "I thought you'd never ask, dude."

As he takes Stan to his room, Kyle hopes it will work here and now the way it did then and there. "This is it," he says, flicking on the light switch. Stan closes the door behind them:

And it is—this _is_ it, even though the furniture is different, the walls are different; even though Stan and Kyle are different, the two of them, together in their own space, is still sanctuary.

Stan must feel it, too, because he's already pulled off his sweater and is undoing his jeans by the time Kyle turns to him after crossing the room to the bedside table and turning on the little lamp there. "Hey," Kyle starts, but doesn't have to say any more because Stan is already reaching over to switch off the overhead light. "Thanks, dude," he says, starting to undress, too.

When they're down to t-shirts (a wife-beater for Stan; it's tight-fitting and he's softer than the athlete's body Kyle always imagined he'd end up with, but it suits him), underwear, and socks, they climb under the covers and settle on their sides facing each other.

"Is it ridiculous that we're doing this?" Stan asks, tucking his arm under the pillow.

It's no more ridiculous than anything they've ever done together, but that doesn't feel like an answer, at least not to the question Stan is asking. "I like being ridiculous with you," Kyle says.

Stan grins, and Kyle feels inordinately pleased with himself for his response. It's not a matter of getting it right or wrong—that's not what being in bed together has ever been about for them. Kyle is aware of the sexual implications, but it's also not about sex. It's just about them. He could never explain this to anyone—well, he sort of tried to, once, with Kenny. Kenny didn't say anything but he got this look on his face, a cross between longing for something beyond reach and comfort that such a thing exists, and Kyle thought he understood. Kyle had been broken on the inside when Stan fell away from them, but he'd done his best to go on, not wanting to let Cartman and Kenny down. Kenny, unexpectedly, was the one who had seemed least able to cope. So Cartman had become Kyle's rock for a while, distracting him when he needed it, just generally being there—which had made Kyle realize that of the four of them, Cartman was most traditionally like a brother to him. They could hate each other and fight with each other all they wanted, but when it really counted, they'd be there for each other. At first he thought maybe it was like that with Kenny and Stan, and that's why Kenny was lost. It wasn't until years later, when Kenny got that look on his face while Kyle was drunkenly trying to tell him about Stan, that Kyle had an epiphany. It wasn't Stan leaving that had made Kenny go to pieces: for Kenny, it wasn't Stan but Stan and Kyle together; it was Stan and Kyle falling apart that had made Kenny fall, too.

"I promised I would tell you what happened back then," Stan says. His hand moves under the covers, finding Kyle's waist, sliding down to his hip. Kyle inches forward, mirroring the touch. "Okay." Stan takes a deep breath. "Well, you know how one of the quirks, if you will, of South Park is that the doctors at Hell's Pass kind of make stuff up sometimes? Like diagnosing Cartman as 'running out of time' when Kenny's soul was trapped in him?" Kyle nods, and Stan does, too. "All right, so—'cynicism' isn't a real diagnosis. I mean, I guess maybe everyone kind of knew that and figured it was just the doctor's way of saying I was being an asshole. But." Stan stops, looks off and up, exhales hard. Kyle's thumb rubs in circles on Stan's hip, and Stan doesn't mirror it but he does close his eyes and take an easier breath.

He finds Kyle's gaze again when he opens his eyes. "But it turns out there was actually something real wrong with me. It was a few years before my mom took me to see someone again. She was kind of at her wits' end with me, and her boyfriend at the time—they're not together anymore, but he's still friends with our family—suggested a psychiatrist he knew. So I went and, long story short, it turned out I have something called major depression. A lot of people only go through it once in their life, but I'm one of the lucky ones." Stan flashes a shaky smile. "It keeps coming back for me."

Kyle nods. Stan's mom had called Kyle's when they got the news, and Kyle had listened in long enough to hear the diagnosis before his mother shooed him away. He had been 15 at the time, Stan, too, of course. As Kyle learned from his online research, it's not uncommon for clinical depression to go undiagnosed in kids. But common or not, five years of wandering around in the dark, with everyone thinking you're just being a dick, knowing that and not being able to do anything about it...

He doesn't realize he's crying until Stan touches his face, brushing a tear away. "Hey, don't," Stan says. Kyle takes one look at his face, the furrow of concern on his brow, and pushes himself as close as he can to Stan, who draws him closer.

"I'm sorry," Kyle says against Stan's shirt.

"You don't have to apologize," Stan says. Kyle shifts up so they're face to face again, their heads on the same pillow now. Stan keeps stroking his curls, studying Kyle. "You're not surprised," he says finally. When Kyle confirms it with a small shake of his head, Stan guesses, "My mom?"

This time Kyle nods. "I'm sorry," he says again.

A puff of laughter mingles with Stan's exhales. "What are you apologizing for now?"

"For writing you off," Kyle says. "I should have been there for you."

"There's no way you could have known the truth back then, dude. No one did. Besides, we were _ten_." Stan's mouth quirks up on one side. "What could you have done?"

"I could have been there for you," Kyle says stubbornly. He knows Stan was being rhetorical and he knows he's repeating himself, but he needs Stan to understand the importance of this: what Kyle didn't do then, how it could have been different, how it could be—but he's getting ahead of himself. "You wouldn't have been alone."

Stan doesn't say anything. His eyes flicker like they want to look away but he's forcing them not to. Something occurs to Kyle and he covers his mouth with his hand.

"I'm sorry, are you—is shit coming out of my mouth right now?"

"No. My meds stop the worst of the hallucinations." Stan tugs Kyle's hand. When Kyle lets it drop, Stan traces Kyle's lower lip, the pad of his thumb barely touching Kyle.

Kyle closes his eyes, wordlessly inviting Stan to touch him more, wherever he wants, however he wants.

On more than one occasion, from more than one source, Kyle has been accused of talking too much. The problem with not using words, though, is that you risk not being heard, and after a moment Stan's touch slips away. Kyle starts to open his eyes, but then he feels Stan's hand on his waist, sliding around to the small of his back, thumb moving in lazy, random patterns on Kyle's skin. Lashes flush against his cheek once more, Kyle sighs. He rests his hand on Stan's chest, then moves it to Stan's back as he shifts closer.

They used to do this when they were kids, lie in one of their beds, wrapped around each other. It started as a game to see who could stay still the longest. Stan, whose thumb is still etching invisible doodles on Kyle, would have already lost this round if they were playing. Maybe they are. So for his prize, Kyle chooses more of Stan's caresses.

After a while, just like he often would back then, Kyle nudges his knee between Stan's, dovetailing their legs and pressing in for an even closer fit. But they're not kids anymore and it's harder—more difficult, that is, to ignore the jolt when their cocks get trapped between them, pushed up against each other.

Kyle leans back, lips parting for an apology—but Stan isn't pulling away, and he doesn't look sorry, and he doesn't look like Kyle should be, either. He's not exactly rolling them over so that one of them is pinned under the other, though, so Kyle cocks his head, rocks his hips against Stan, slow and deliberate, letting Stan feel how hard he is. Kyle imagines his precome leaving a trail on Stan's skin. He bites his lip, licks at it. "Do you want to?"

Stan doesn't answer right away. Then he says, "You know how I have these awesome meds that keep the shit away?" Kyle nods, biting his lip again. "Yeah, so—they also keep the sex drive away." His smile has an apologetic, self-deprecating tilt.

Kyle shifts his gaze from Stan's mouth to his eyes. "Does that include kissing?"

Stan leans in and, open-eyed, touches his mouth to Kyle's. Kyle tries to keep his eyes open, too, but it's too close, too much, and his lashes flutter down as he parts his lips and breathes against Stan's. Stan opens for him, and still Kyle only breathes; he breathes into Stan, inhales Stan's breath; draws in Stan's tongue, warm and slick inside him.

Sighing into the kiss, Kyle licks at Stan's tongue, licks at Stan's teeth when he finally slips into Stan's mouth, because Stan has licked at his.

Kyle has lost track of time in the kiss and could lose himself for eons more, except that something is tugging at him inside his mind. He tries to meditate in the kiss, pushing away everything else, but the thing inside his mind is insistent, and finally he relents and lets it surface.

As soon as it does, Kyle breaks the kiss. "Hey." He studies Stan's face, trying to read him. When they were kids, Stan was unselfconsciously expressive; it wasn't just his heart that he wore on his sleeve, it was everything. He could hide his emotions and fool you if he wanted to, but most of the time he put it all out there for the world to know. He's not like that now. Kyle thinks it's the meds more than anything. Stan is still in there; he has to be. Kyle looks into his eyes, trying to see what Stan's really feeling, whether he's hiding anything. Stan is the one who kissed Kyle, but Kyle needs to be sure that the kiss was the answer, not a way of avoiding the answer. "Are you okay with this?" he asks. "I mean, do you actually _like_ it?"

Stan flickers, his gaze close to dropping out of Kyle's, managing to stay. His smile is helpless, matching his shrug. "I like being close to you."

"Dude." Kyle moves in again, squirming around as he fits himself to Stan everywhere he can. It takes Stan a couple of seconds, but then he's doing it, too, molding himself to Kyle. Stan rolls onto his back and Kyle goes with him, letting Stan's hands guide the drape of his body, shifting to make himself comfortable. His head rests on Stan's shoulder as Stan's fingers burrow through his curls to massage his skull. As Stan's chest rises and falls beneath him, Kyle sighs deeply himself.

"Okay?" Stan murmurs after a while.

Kyle makes a throaty, inarticulate sound before clarifying, "Yeah, dude. More than okay."

"Good." Stan pulls his fingers through Kyle's hair, only to delve in again. "I've fantasized about this," he says, so quietly Kyle isn't sure the words are meant for him to hear.

He does hear them, though: Stan's fantasy ripples through Kyle as he snugs himself closer; he'd melt into Stan right now, if he could. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I—" Stan's takes a deep breath, then another as soon as he's let that one out. "This—" He cuts himself off again, then eases himself out from under Kyle and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to Kyle.

Kyle sits up, too. "Stan?"

"Sorry," Stan says without turning around, voice shaky. "I can't, I'm sorry, I—didn't want this to happen." The lump in Kyle's throat drops down to his belly, curling up hard and cold. But then Stan goes on, "I didn't want to be like this in front of you," and Kyle's dread of rejection evaporates. His stomachache is gone, replaced by heartache for Stan that is somehow both new and familiar.

Stan's shoulders rise and fall with each audible breath he takes. "Why am I like this?" he asks so softly, Kyle has to strain to hear. He thinks Stan is probably talking to himself, might not even know he's talking out loud, but Kyle needs to hear him. "Why do I have to ruin everything?"

Kyle has seen Stan like this once before: back to Kyle, shoulders hunched like he's trying to close in on himself or the world is too heavy against him or something Kyle can only imagine; can't even imagine. He didn't do anything then. No—he walked away then.

Not this time. He pushes the covers off himself and scoots over, kneeling up behind Stan, slipping his arms around Stan's waist, leaning lightly against his back. He waits for Stan to touch his clasped hands and alight there. "Nothing's ruined," Kyle whispers. He unclasps his hands, lifting his fingers to interlace with Stan's. "Okay, dude?"

Stan nods and then says, "Okay."

"Do you want to lie down again?" Kyle's thumb nuzzles the webbing between Stan's thumb and forefinger. "Because your fantasy is, like..." Unable to find the right words, Kyle settles for, "I'm not ready to leave it, dude."

He loosens the embrace as Stan shifts to look at him. Stan's gaze right now makes Kyle feel unusually vulnerable, but he holds himself open and unflinching in it, and finally Stan leans in to touch his parted lips to Kyle's. Kyle keeps his eyes open, too, this time. Gazes locked so close to each other, they linger, breathing, no more and no less, and it is the most intense kiss Kyle has ever experienced.

They crawl back under the covers, which Kyle lets Stan arrange over them as they get comfortable again. When Kyle pushes up the hem of Stan's shirt to lay his palm on bare skin, Stan caresses his nape encouragingly, drifting up into his curls again.

If he could, Kyle would live in Stan's fantasy. Without his outdoor clothes, Stan doesn't smell so much like the ocean or California anymore. He smells like he did when he was a kid, only stronger. No body spray or any of that crap: just soap and sweat and human. Kyle closes his eyes and inhales deep.

Relaxation infuses Kyle. He's always understood the phrase "going boneless" intellectually, but he never truly knew what it meant until now. He shifts contentedly against Stan—and realizes he's not entirely boneless, after all.

"Oh, uh—sorry about that." Kyle starts to roll off Stan but Stan catches him, pulls him close again, trapping Kyle's engorged cock between them.

"I don't mind." Stan rolls his hips a little and Kyle has to bite his lip to keep from moaning as the friction thrills through him. "It's okay if you rub up against me. Or maybe I could suck you off." At that, Kyle pushes involuntarily against Stan, who grins in response.

His smile fades as he shifts, spreading his legs so Kyle is lying fully between them now. "Or, if you want, you can fuck me."

Not even his teeth digging into his lower lip can stop Kyle from letting out a choked moan. If he wants to? God, he could come just from _thinking_ about being inside Stan—he _has_ come just from thinking about it.

But—"I thought you have no sex drive." Kyle slides back and kneels up between Stan's legs. "Or am I that amazing?"

A low chuckle pushes up beneath Stan's exhale. "You _are_ pretty amazing, dude." His flashed grin fades. "But no, I just," he swallows, "I thought maybe I could do that for you..."

"Stan." Kyle sits back on his heels, then climbs back over to his side of the bed and reaches for the nightstand lamp, clicking it up a notch. He stays sitting up as he turns back and searches Stan's face. "Is this—do you do this a lot?" He feels how deeply his brow is furrowing, tries to smooth it, only partially succeeds. The lump in his throat is back, but he manages to keep talking around it. "I mean, do you think you have to have sex when you don't want to, just because whoever you're with wants it?"

"God, no!" Stan sits up, too, eyes widening. "Dude, no. No. This is just, because it's you." His gaze softens, his voice lowers. "I want to do this for you, if you want it. I want to make you feel good. Because I." He pauses; the pause becomes a full stop. Stan bends his legs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

The air has grown heavy with the weight of Stan's unspoken words, becoming almost too thick to breathe. "You what?" Kyle says softly. "What is it, Stan? You can tell me. You can tell me anything." He wishes Stan knew that still, the way he did when they were kids. But it's okay if he doesn't because if that's the case, Kyle will help him re-learn.

Stan takes his face out of his hands. For a moment Kyle thinks Stan is going to tell him, but then Stan shakes his head. "I can't, Kyle. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"What do you mean?" Kyle inches forward, dares to rest his hand on Stan's knee.

Stan looks down at Kyle's hand. Then he reaches for it, turning it palm up and interlacing their fingers. Still looking down, he says, "Can we rewind?"

Kyle almost smiles, because that's from their childhood—rewind. It's not the same as taking something back. It's a shared acceptance that whatever is rewound never happened; a willing suspension of disbelief about the improbability of time travel.

Even though Kyle doesn't want to rewind this, he nods. Stan nods, too, deliberately exhales the breath he's just taken, rakes his fingers through his hair. This isn't part of the rewind ritual, but Stan seems to need to reset himself. Kyle closes his eyes and lies down on his back to wait for him.

It's only a few seconds before he feels the mattress shift as Stan lies down, too. Kyle's fingers curl around Stan's when Stan takes his hand, ready for the first squeeze: one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five: rewound.

But Kyle can't stop thinking about what Stan almost said. It's his fault the rewind didn't work: he was thinking about it during the rewind and one of the first things they discovered about time travel is that whatever you have in your mind while traveling goes back in time with you.

So now Kyle can't stop thinking about what Stan almost said. He glances over, wondering if the rewind failed for Stan, too. He can't ask, though, because then Stan will know he failed. Kyle doesn't know at all if he's right about it; he's probably just thinking what he's thinking because it's what he wants.

He thinks of the years he couldn't talk to Stan because Stan was gone. He thinks of the time he could have talked to Stan when he was here, and didn't.

Well, Stan is here now. If he can't talk to Kyle for whatever reason, Kyle won't let that stop him from talking to Stan. "Hey," he says, rolling onto his side and propping up on his elbow. "Can I tell you something? A couple of things," he amends.

"Yeah, dude, of course." Stan props up, too.

"Okay, first—it's important to me that you know I'll listen to whatever you want to tell me," Kyle says, hoping Stan won't look away, "but it's also okay if there are things you can't tell me." Since Stan is still looking at him, Kyle continues, "So if you're not ready to tell me something, that's okay. And if you're maybe never ready to tell me, that's okay, too. It won't come between us. Okay?" He knows he's saying "okay" too much but he can't help it; he just wants it to be so badly.

Stan nods. His expression tells Kyle that Stan knows the rewind failed—which must mean it failed for Stan, too. Kyle still might be wrong about what Stan was going to say to him, but he can't let that change what he's going to say to Stan. "The other thing," Kyle says, "is that I've missed you every day."

"Me, too," Stan says softly.

Part of Kyle wants to stop time and live in this moment; but the part of him that has grown up not to trust in time manipulation anymore keeps going forward. "I promised myself that if I ever had the chance, I'd tell you this," Kyle says: "I love you, Stan.

"It's not even being in love with you—although I'm pretty sure I definitely am that, too. It's that I've loved you my whole life. I love you more than anything, dude."

Kyle's heart is beating hard, pushing against his lungs, the hollow of his throat. He holds his breath and looks at Stan—

And slaps himself down for having let in the hope and belief that this is what Stan wanted to tell him, too: because Stan doesn't say anything, and he even rolls away.

"Why did you say that?" Stan sounds broken, even more broken than he did back then, his voice splintering on every word and every space between them.

Kyle thought his reason was there in the words themselves.

"You don't know what you're saying," Stan says then.

"I do—"

"No," Stan says, sitting up but not turning toward Kyle. "I know you think you do, but you don't know what it's really like to have me around anymore. I can't—I can't do anything. I can't hold down a job. It gets to where I can't help out around the house sometimes, or even leave it. Some days I have a hard time even getting out of bed. And then when I'm _in_ bed—" he laughs, but there's no joy or amusement in it. "I only want to have sex like every three years. I'm." He stops, then finishes quietly, "I would ruin your life."

Kyle wipes his eyes impatiently with the back of his hand. God, why does Stan always have to be like this? Everyone thought Kyle was the smartass know-it-all when they were kids, but Stan has always been _at least_ as much of a know-it-all.

"You don't know everything," Kyle says before he can stop himself. Then he realizes he wouldn't have stopped himself even if he could have; it's true, and he's glad he said it. He gets out of bed, crouches down to scan the lowest shelf of the little bookcase he keeps in here, finds the one he wants. He climbs back onto the bed and sits next to Stan. "Here."

He slides Shel Silverstein's _[The Missing Piece Meets the Big O](http://osorhan.com/bigo)_ into Stan's lap. When Stan doesn't move, Kyle opens the cover and starts flipping the pages. "Remember how much we used to love this book?" He stops on a page where the little wedge dude has found a perfect fit in the wedge-shaped space of a round dude. Subsequent pages, where the little wedge outgrows the round dude, have been obliterated with green and blue crayons. All four of their parents had taken shots at trying to explain to the boys that they were missing the point of the book: the little wedge found true happiness when he learned to roll himself, and could roll whole with another round, whole dude. Kyle had been furious that they couldn't see the little wedge dude just wanted to belong, and that he'd been forced to turn into a round dude when that wasn't what he really was. Kyle had thrown the book out his window.

The next day, Stan had shown up with the book and a box of crayons. In the picture of the perfect fit, Stan had already written his own name next to the round dude with the wedge-shaped hole and Kyle's name next to the wedge dude. Kyle hadn't been able to stop smiling.

Now Kyle reaches over for one of the ballpoint pens he always keeps on the bedside table. He crosses out their names in the book, then writes Stan's name next to the wedge dude. "You think you're this broken thing now, this splintered piece," Kyle says. He looks at Stan, who is looking at the page. "You think you can't do anything or go anywhere. But you fit with me, Stan." He taps the picture with his fingertip. "I need you as much as you need me. I can only roll when you're with me."

As soon as he says it, Kyle groans inwardly; it sounds melodramatic and ridiculous, and if Kyle heard it in a movie he'd probably call it trite. The worst part, though, is that he honestly and truly means it.

Stan looks at him. "But." He swallows. "But what if I get bigger, heavier, too heavy..." He looks down again, turning to the page where that happens beneath the crayon scribbles.

Kyle takes the book out of Stan's hands and rips out the page. He rips out all the rest of the pages and drops them, wadded up and irrelevant, to the floor. "Then I'll get bigger, too. We'll always fit, dude. We always have and we always will." In his lap, the book is still open to the perfect fit page. Kyle clicks his pen and writes, "The End."

He looks up when Stan touches his hand, then down as Stan slides the pen from his grip. Beneath Kyle's words, Stan adds, "and the beginning..."

"Oh Stan, dude..."

"I know, that's totally gay, isn't it?" Stan shakes his head, half-grins as he glances off. "Sorry."

When he looks back, Kyle leans in and puts his smiling mouth on Stan's.

Stan's fingers curl under the hem of Kyle's t-shirt when they part. "Can I take this off of you?" Kyle nods, raising his arms as Stan eases the shirt off. He lies back, propped up on his elbows as Stan stands to strip off his own shirt. Thumbs hooked in the waistband of his briefs, Stan pauses. "Is it okay if we don't, you know—if it's just to be close?"

"Yeah," Kyle smiles, "of course." As he arches to get his own boxers down past his hips, his gaze drifts down Stan's body, lingering on his cock, soft and thick, cocooned in his foreskin.

"Yours is pretty, too," Stan says.

Caught staring, Kyle blushes as he looks up; the blush deepens as his brain registers the compliment. Stan only smiles and sits next to him on the bed, leaning down to take off his socks. Lying back, Kyle brings his knees to his chest, one after the other, until he's barefoot, too.

Naked, they slip into the sanctuary under the covers, curling up together.

They've been cuddling wordlessly for a while when the light bang of the front door alerts them to Kenny's return. They hear him moving around the apartment, and then: "Red puffball hat— _fuck_ yes!" Moments later, he thumps Kyle's door. "Hey, don't get up or anything. Just wake me up tomorrow and we'll go for breakfast, okay? Okay, I love you guys, g'night! Also, Stan, I'm wearing this to bed, dude." As his footsteps recede, an appreciative, "red fucking puffball, man," floats back to them.

Suppressing his laughter, Kyle cups his hand around his mouth and whispers, "He's a little drunk," like it's a secret they're sharing; Stan grins like it is, too. "Hey," Kyle says in his normal voice, "that reminds me—what _are_ your plans? I mean, do you have any?"

"Well, I was kind of thinking about staying here. I mean," Stan's mouth quirks up on one side, "you can't roll without me, right?"

"Fuck you, dude." Kyle grins back, then feels it fade as his heart swells with hope: "Wait, staying with Kenny and me for your visit? Or staying like you're moving back here?"

"I think I want to," Stan says. "Um. But also the other. Like, staying _here_..."

"Staying in our apartment when you move back?"

"In your bed," Stan says.

Kyle smiles. "Dude, yes." He can't stop smiling. He leans forward and kisses Stan, chastely, just enough to infect him with the smiling. "God, Stan, I—I just..."

"Yeah," Stan says. "Love you too, dude."


End file.
